Flame of the Lonely Mountain
by SapphireEyeoftheRaven
Summary: "'Girion, Lord of Dale, has been fifty years dead' the dragon booms, his great roar triumphantly shaking the cave, 'I ate his people like a wolf among sheep. I kill where I wish and none dare resist.'" Smaug has reigned over the Lonely Mountain for fifty years, but now he wants more. Can the curious "Barrel-Rider" change his mind before the Darkness finally takes over?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone. This is my first fic so I'm a little nervous… Please enjoy and review anyway! Feedback is much appreciated. :)**

_Tap… Tap-Tap, Tap… Tap, Tap, Tap… Tap… Tap…_

The dark, blood-red ruby ring trembles on top of a pile of gold furiously. The cave is full of gold and silverware and treasures. Great diamond chandeliers swing from the ceiling and the twenty-four marble pillars which line the chamber are bejewelled with amethyst gemstones. The floor is not visible at all due to the vast amounts of treasure. Gold coins litter the ground in piles, all teetering precariously on top of the next, in no order.

_Tap… Tap—Tap-tap… Tap-tap…_

The ring trembles and shudders gently. _Tap, tap, tap… _And huge gold coins snake down the top of their miniature mountain, the ruby ring following them down in the flow of golden current. The treasures have run down their mound, making a smaller and more spread out pile below. But gold has been replaced with gold. Where the coinage had been, a solid, golden structure has appeared. This structure is glistening and moulded with large, precious scales. It flutters slightly.

A single glinting eye snaps open and blinks blearily, zoning in and out of focus. It is a ghostly galleon of yellow, which is threaded with toffee, beige, rusty orange, splatters of deep, thick crimson, dusty greyish-pink, and pure, bone white. The eye is jewel-encrusted in the most ludicrous fashion. The whole orbit of it contains triangular rubies, octagonal emeralds and hexagonal sapphires, all of which are dotted randomly over the expanse of scales. The upper eyelid is set with massive pearls, which shine happily in the tiny slither of moonlight that is tumbling through the minuscule open window.

The source of the tapping noise soon reveals itself. A thrush, peeking with such curiosity through the window, the light, sweet outdoor breeze ruffling its soft down and the discarded, cracked shell of a snail at its side. The mother bird proceeds to swoop in and glide over the expanse of gold, her keen, beetle-black eyes searching for something to build a nest with. She stops when she sees a few broken strings of a fine gold harp and flutters down towards them gently. Immediately, as she lands, the ground slips and slides, gold trickling down in tiny rivulets, like spilt paint dripping from a bucket, from the top of the nearest mound. Gold coins shift and run down between the thrush's thin legs, pooling finally at the bottom of the mound. The gold coins on which the mother thrush had been perched are no longer there. In their place, a pointed, oversized golden nostril and part of a snout lie. The thrush flies off in panic at the sight of such a strange, supernatural thing and immediately glides up over to the window again, accidentally hitting a precariously balanced gold goblet. It falls down the mound, bouncing and making an eerie racket in this not-so empty cave.

_Clang... _

_Clang..._

_Clang…_

The mother thrush lands on the window, just as more gold starts tumbling and pouring down in great buckets. An indignant snort is let out from the nostril and suddenly an entire snout appears, long and scaled, as the gold slides down into dips in the cave.  
Gold is raining down from a massive shape that is rising from the depths of the treasure. A long, spindly wing bursts forth from the mound, followed by another, and they shake the gold and coins from the leathery crevices which span out and stretch. A long, scathing tail swipes the air, batting away any flying gold debris as it rises. And suddenly a whole massive body is shimmying from the gold, precious treasures trickling out from between long bronze spikes, which reach from the tip of the tail to the neck, down the spine. A massive head finally erupts from the tomb of gold coins, where it had been buried.  
The scales which are pulled, taut along gaunt flesh, are golden, and they shine and glisten terribly, blending in with the mounds and mountains of gold surrounding. The dragon has a slim, golden snout and a long head, its yellow eyes flashing and glistening as they snap open. Its breathing is loud and heavy, and it echoes through the caves and tunnels in a low, menacing rumble.

'What is it?' the great dragon's voice snarls, its lip curling as it rises to its feet and creeps over to the window. Still, the thrush is perched, its head cocked to one side quizzically as if it has never seen a dragon awake from slumber before. The great beast reaches out with a long claw and snatches up the tiny bird, whose wings have finally begun to flutter madly.

'You are attracted to gold... Just like me,' the dragon murmurs, his eyes gliding over to rest on the harp, not entirely feeling the furious beating of frantic wings within his curled-up fist. 'I _would _let you go, of course,' the dragon growls, 'But that would mean risking the entire operation. The other option would be killing you, but I think you'll prove far too useful. So I think I'll let you watch the show, my dear.' He traces a bronze claw softly over the thrush's feathers before placing her in a fine metal cage that hangs from the corner of the window.

'Why do you let it live?' a voice suddenly whispers from the darkness, a raspy voice which sounds like it is caught in the wind. But the window has slammed closed. There is no wind.

The dragon's yellow eyes flash like torches, looking over abruptly at something that appears to not be there. The candlelight in the chandelier nearest the wall flickers nervously as the great beast swivels and thumps around the chamber, pacing madly and clawing at marble pillars as he passes, 'She will prove most useful. You shall see. When we finally take over the whole of Dale and enslave them. I shall feast and hunt them. She shall get in and out. She shall act as a messenger before we attack.'

'No!' the voice whispers firmly, its raspy echo bouncing over the gold coins, 'No, O Smaug!'

'Yes…' Smaug murmurs, smiling slightly, eerily, 'Yes… _Yes…'_

'NO!' the darkness yells, its voice whooshing through the chamber in thick, black wind. 'We shall target Middle Earth. Dale is too small for us. It is a mere pinprick compared to the whole of Middle Earth. It is but an ear of corn in scores of fields filled to the brim with golden sheaves. We can gain so much _more.' _The darkness hisses enticingly, 'Indescribable power will be wielded by me – by _us. _We shall be supreme!History shan't forget us.'

'We shall bring down Middle Earth until it falls, _begging_ upon its knees,' Smaug growls, scratching a long, bronze nail into the single patch of earth, the single patch of bare soil in his entire cave. A line… then another line… All with the utmost, careful precision. 'Starting with Dale.'

'Good…' the darkness mutters in approval, 'You understand, if I am correct, that if we position ourselves correctly at precisely the correct moment then –'

'We? _WE?_' Smaug the Magnificent screeches, 'I shall be the one doing all the work, and where will you be? Skulking around in this gloomy cave, no doubt!'

The darkness is quiet for a moment. It takes a while before he speaks, and when he does, his voice bounces across the walls behind the great dragon as if he is moving, and while doing so removing the warm, smug blanket from Smaug and breaking down the walls of his cool exterior. When the darkness speaks, he speaks slowly and deliberately, as if issuing a warning, 'Durst you speak to me like that? With such authority?' the darkness stops, before passing through the great golden-scaled dragon, and Smaug barely holds back a shiver. 'Think you that this is wise, O Smaug?'

'_Please_. You are in no way superior to me…' Smaug calls out fearlessly to the darkness, throwing back his great head and laughing. 'Girion, Lord of Dale, has been fifty years dead!' he booms, his great roar triumphantly shaking the cave where Smaug himself had defeated the lord, 'I ate his people like a wolf among sheep. I kill where I wish and none dare resist.

'My eyes are torches in the night, seeking, preying upon those whom my enemies hold most dear,' Smaug boasts, edging closer towards the precious Arkenstone on his massive throne of jewels with each slow, calculated step. He smiles a slow, twisted smile, flashing perfect white teeth in the chaos of a wide, cruel smirk, 'My teeth are knives and daggers which tear through the putrid, sweating flesh of those who oppose me. My claws are the hooks which help the struggling fish get caught on my line, ready for my supper. But I do not take home my catches, no, I eat them raw and whole. My wings rip the night into ribbons as I glide on them silently, towards my prey, towards you… My cry is what man fears most of all. It cuts through the air like a whip marking the back of a slave, and it will always leave a scar of some shape or form. I am better. I am fire and flame. _I_ am King Under the Mountain. I. Am. Death,' he breathes finally, reaching down with a long, spidery digit and scooping up the huge crown he had fashioned from the broken metals he had melted and welded.

'You?' the darkness laughs coyly, and the precious metals in the cave jingle and ring hollowly, '_You _are death? Where would you be without me, o dragon? You _need _me.'

Smaug contemplates this, spinning his crown on a glimmering bronze claw before tossing it up onto his head. 'You are merely a travelling being, one who seeks refuge in my cave.'

'It was my cave before it was yours and you know that,' the darkness growls menacingly, but Smaug thinks nothing of it. Instead of reacting in fear he flicks his tail and lets it fall with a loud thump that shakes the cave and the whole mountain, all the way down to Dale. He can _feel _the unspoken fear of the residents seconds afterwards, and he can already taste the sweet terror on their flesh as they anticipate his pillaging. They know he is coming. One breath, one movement, and they believe that he has awoken from a great slumber. He paralyses them with fear.

'I could kill you now.'

Smaug smirks, picking lazily at his overgrown incisors as he lounges, his full length stretching across his throne, 'You wouldn't dare.'

'How can you be so sure?' the darkness asks, its voice hollow. Then suddenly, a flurry of bats erupts from the shadows behind Smaug, but if they startle him, he doesn't show it. Their cries echo and shriek around the cave, bouncing off the walls, making Smaug's ears ring. He snaps his jaws around half a dozen, tearing them with one powerful munch of his canines. He swallows them whole and licks his scaly lips, 'Mm… Delectable. Have you got any more?' he snuffles, almost mockingly, as he swallows.

'No.'

'What a shame…' he snorts, expelling a spurting fine trail of grey-blue smoke, before gathering himself up and casting his crown aside. He stretches his wings, the massive span engulfing the darkness of the room. 'Well, be off with you, then. Now I shall feast.'

Smaug drags his nail finally through the thick layer of dusty soil, completing his absent-minded sketch. It's simple enough – a few lines, parallel, horizontal but the most prominent is curved, and also a circle, along with some extra lines. A _hangman._


	2. Chapter 2

'Tip-toe through the dungeons,

Taking gold with me

One step – then two step

Smaug can't catch me!' Six little girls sing, as they skip and prance in a merry little ring.

The town of Dale is unusually bright and cheery this afternoon. There have been no dragon attacks for over a month now, and so all of the children have been let outside. They dance and play in the patches of long, thick grass, and some float along in barges up and down the river. Dale is a town of trade, a fishing community, who sell great silver fish far and wide by barge, and so their children are learned in the craft of boating.

The mountain trembles once again, but all of the residents pay no heed to it. This has been happening the whole of springtime but no attack has followed the great rumble of earth for a long time. The merry music continues, as do the street-dancers. Men of trade lurk near their stalls, preparing to pounce on an unwary buyer who is caught off their guard. Money and goods are being exchanged in hand and the whole town is outside, in the market, playing with their children, fishing…

All of a sudden, the air becomes cold and heavy. The sparse voices in the market soon quiet down, and all people slowly turn to the looming Lonely Mountain, which is belching a black cloud of ash and flame. Young pine trees leading down from the mountain are scorched, some are felled, while others are charred down to the roots, which are a startling ivory for some strange reason, against the sickly canopy of ebony.

Finally, an elderly woman's lingering scream rings in the air. It is a scream of terror, which reaches the whole town. From North to South, East to West, all the residents of Dale know what is coming… But they already did, didn't they? 'DRAGON!'

And suddenly, great winds beat around them like the epicentre of a storm, uprooting trees in their wake, and tearing up sheaves and fields of young, golden crops. Children scream and flee to their homes, to their mothers. Traders begin frantically packing up their stock, but it will be to no avail. Smaug is here. Smaug is here, and he will not leave _anything_ untouched.

The great golden dragon comes hurtling from the North, wind whistling behind him. He shoots out a spout of fire, snorting and screeching at the wind with, quite frankly, _psychotic_ cries. With a single blow of his horned tail, Smaug takes out twelve little shacks, the debris clattering and snapping, before forming a charred heap of ruin. Flames lick the sides of every home on the north side of Dale.

A girl is rooted to the spot, as if massive vines have ensnared her legs and tangled in a twisted thicket around her ankles. Smaug cocks his head slightly and leans towards her, as his wings continue to beat, his poisonous yellow eyes boring into her warm cocoa ones. He smiles a contorted smile as the girl opens her mouth to scream – but no sound comes out. She is gone in a blast of flame. Smaug takes no prisoners from Dale, not ever. He will simply char them alive, eat them whole or just get bored and forget about them.

He continues to swoop and glide over Dale, humming to himself gleefully as he goes.

'Ten boatmen sailing,

Sailing, but they will fall

'Ten boatmen sailing,

Sailing, but they will fall

There will be no bodies, because I'll have ate them all!

Ten boatmen sailing,

Sailing, but they will fall!'

Then he growls and roars and bares his teeth at the men who have bows to try and shoot him down. _Ha! My hide is the thickest of those in the whole of Middle Earth. No measly arrow can pierce me! _He proceeds to blast flame upon the people and circles Dale until he is bored and flies off.

* * *

A small bird persistently twitters and tweets outside the window of Bag End. It whistles a merry tune as a pair of bleary, brown eyes open up sluggishly and blink a few times in disorientation. Hairy feet swing down from the bed and pad towards the round, neat, little green window. There is the click of a latch and the window swings open, letting in a soft spring breeze. The sun is a hazy, golden orb lounging lazily on the horizon as Bilbo Baggins gets up… And if you were to ask him later on, he would have truly wished he hadn't.

**A/N: There it is, then, Chapter 2. I would just like to say a big thank you to TheWoodElfOfAsgard, who is pretty much my little book of ideas, and to all of you, for even just glancing at my story. I really appreciate it. Place a review if you can, please.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 is here! It is a little cryptic but all will be revealed in later chapters. Many thanks to my reviewers, whom I really appreciate. If you can, please drop a review. Thank you.**

'My lord!' a voice calls to King Thranduil, as the elven king dismisses one of his many servants, who has brought him more wine. He stands as his visitor's pattering footsteps echo through the palace halls and reach the outside of his door. There is the gentle rapping of frail knuckles on oak before the fair-haired king's visitor enters.

A young female elf is gliding towards him gracefully, the azure fabric of her dress settling wearily upon her bowed shoulders. Her snow-white skin is a slither of pale moonlight which bathes a still ocean, and her elegantly sculpted cheekbones are high and proud, supporting pockets of alabaster, gaunt flesh. The girl's eyes are ringed and shadowed darkly. The frames of the golden-speckled silver irises are weary and old-looking, but her exquisite eyes are sharp, witty, the outer ring of blue supporting a smoky interior. Her hair is as brown as an oak tree, straight and long, and threaded finely with fresh juniper berries.

Lord Thranduil manages a tight smile but the young elf is unfazed. She stands stiffly, as if to attention, before her sovereign and king. She has been beckoned so that she may speak of the terrible Smaug, the creature who has been threatening their forest. 'Yes, Raevile?'

'My lord,' she pants breathily, bowing, 'News of the dragon.'

King Thranduil sets his wine goblet down on the table gently and turns to her, quirking a pale eyebrow humourlessly, 'Its movements?'

'It has unleashed a full attack on Dale, but I – _we_ know not of its motives. It has destroyed all living space West of Dale and death counters are high. After sending blow after blow upon the people, it, as my good friend Kage put it "upped sticks" and returned back to the mountain. It would appear that it was… profoundly jaded, your honour.'

'Thank you, Raevile,' the king murmurs, settling back into his throne wearily and flitting an ivory hand over to graze his pale-lashed eyelids, 'You have been most useful, as always.'

The young elf bows elegantly as she backs away towards the door, 'It is an honour, my liege.' She is just flicking the brass knob handle to let herself out when the voice behind her calls one final time.

'And Raevile?' Lord Thranduil finally sighs, nodding in the direction of the young elf's chambers, 'Get some rest before you return to the mountain. Even we elves cannot survive on little to no rest.'

'Yes, your honour.' The door clicks gently shut, and Raevile is gone.

* * *

Kage is a merry elf, dressed in a leafy combat green dress. Her unusual hazel eyes glimmer contentedly, threaded with sharp emerald green tendrils. The younger's cheeks lack the usual pallor of an elf's, and instead are red and rosy, giving her the permanent expression of a happy traditional elf. Unfortunately for any orc or great spider at the point of her blade, Kage is a highly skilled swordswoman; one who has been known to take out packs of Wargs and goblins single-handedly.

Her chestnut hair swings in its long plait, the wreathed holly upon her crown nestling deeper into her hair as Raevile comes out of the king's chambers after her report on the dragon, smirking triumphantly, in her usual way.

Kage immediately steps into line by the girl's side imitating her movements as they step towards their shared chamber. Their heavily armoured beings are weary as their shoe heels clack across the stone floors and they have to turn corner after corner to reach their chambers, which are on the far East side of the palace. 'I take it you told the king, then?' Kage begins finally

Raevile sighs, before opening her mouth to speak, 'Well, I certainly explained to him the movements of the dragon.'

'But did he –'

'No.'

'Ugh,' Kage groans, dragging her feet on the cold stone and blowing a strand of chestnut hair from her eyes, 'Mother is worried. I cannot go to the mountain and risk my life every single day without fail. I need a break from all of this adventuring, be it just two days at least.'

The other elf nods and continues conversationally, 'Well… Maybe, because Smaug is stronger now, Lord Thranduil needs to keep an eye on the beast. And before you say "But why us?", he needs the best warrior in the whole of Middle Earth wh-'

'What's wrong?' Kage's brown-green eyes are full of concern for her friend, who has stopped mid-sentence, and even stopped walking.

Raevile shakes her head, blinking her hooded eyes tiredly, 'Nothing, Kage. I am fine.' She leans heavily against a stone pillar, one hand balanced shakily out in front of her. The world is spinning so fast and the floor is wobbling around like the deck of a sailboat in a storm. Raevile blinks slowly again. 'Nothing wrong…' she mumbles quietly, 'Just tell the ground to stop swaying and swinging around. It's supposed to be on the floor, not dancing along the wall – actually, now it's on the ceiling. It's hard to walk on…'

'Whoa there.' Suddenly, strong arms are wrapped around her slim waist, but she tries to wiggle free. Finally, she slumps into the arms of the other elf, mumbling incoherently about dragons and eagles and spiders and the river.

'You spoon,' Kage tells her, readjusting her grip on the elf's clothes as she carries her down the final corridor, 'You complete and utter spoon. Lord Thranduil _told_ you to get rest, didn't he? But you didn't listen! And now I'm going to have to spend my rest day looking after you,' Kage tells her, but she is smiling slightly as she unlocks the door to their rooms.

Just slightly.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins is bustling around his kitchen on this early morning. He jogs to the pantry, and retrieves a loaf of fresh bread and some butter, before doing a little jog back to the kitchen. Five minutes later he trots back there again to collect sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes.

His second breakfast.

Bilbo hums quietly to himself as he prepares to read the morning paper. The Baggins part of him is very interested in the current affairs of Middle Earth… on the other hand, the Took side of him doesn't really give a jolly's about who is doing what, or what is selling fast and so on. The Took side of him wants to grab a pack and go off on an adventure.

Just as the kettle whistles he jumps up to pour his third cup of tea this morning, he sends a glance out of the window, and you would never guess what he saw!

A band of dwarves, bumbling and blundering about. They are dressed for travel, and are wearing thick animal hides. They carry axes and other weapons at their sides and packs on their shoulders, and they look like a rather menacing bunch, all fourteen of them.

_They must be adventuring… _Bilbo thinks to himself, tutting, _Terrible thing, that old adventuring. All dangerous and deathly... To think, that people go adventuring as an order is an awful thing – to go on a mere whim is even worse. Never shall I go for adventures, no sir! Adventuring makes you late for supper… and tea… and breakfast… and second breakfast… and brunch…. and lunch…. It may even stop you from eating any meals altogether! Gandalf forbid, that a hobbit like me would actually go on an adventure..!_

It seems the Took side of him would, in fact, get what it wanted today. Not that Bilbo knows just yet of course.

'Oh dear me…' Bilbo mutters to himself, 'Dwarves in the Shire? I wonder why?'

But this current hobbit's wondering would be gone soon, and replaced with knowing, because at that very moment, there is a heavy knock on Bilbo's prized yellow front door.


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter contains a few SPOILERS for the Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (although I assume that most people have seen it). It may be slightly Sherlock-y (is that even a word? "Sherlocked" is, so why not…) in the future, because of what I've got planned ;) But it's not really a crossover. There are also a few quotes from the book, may I note. Just thought I'd say. Well, onward…**

* * *

_But this current hobbit's wondering would be gone soon, and replaced with knowing, because at that very moment, there is a heavy knock on Bilbo's prized yellow front door._

* * *

'Who could it be at this fine hour?' Bilbo mutters to himself, drawing his eyes from the dwarves and dropping the curtain as he goes to investigate – no, he doesn't like that word, it implies adventure – … as he goes to _check_. There.

He opens the door swiftly, and without looking at who stands on his doorstep, he utters a brief greeting. 'Good morning.'

'And what could you possibly mean by "Good morning", my dear little fellow?' a gravelly, booming voice answers, and Bilbo finds himself staring up at a wizened elderly man with a pointed grey hat and a long beard of which the tip is tucked into the man's tan belt. He is tall, taller than most of the big people, Bilbo notes, with eyes as grey as the Brandywine on a stormy eve. The man – or _wizard_, as we know – carries a staff, and to Bilbo he is frighteningly familiar.

'Um – um, good morning. Do – do I know y-you?' Bilbo stutters, stepping back – a big mistake.

The man takes this as an invitation to enter Bag End, banging his head of Bilbo's prized swinging chandelier as he steps over the threshold. He brings a hand up to rub it fiercely, suddenly noticing that Bilbo hasn't shut the door yet, and is still standing, open-mouthed at the spectacle in front of him. _What a queer fellow indeed… _'Shut that door, my dear Bilbo, we're getting a draft… And what did you mean by good morning? Could it be that you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or do you feel good on this morning, or feel that it is a morning on which to be good on?'

Bilbo lets the door swing shut. 'A-All of them at once, I suppose…' Bilbo coughs slightly, 'Who _are_ you?'

'Who ever thought that I would live to be _"Good-morninged" _by Belladonna Took's son?' the grey man murmurs to himself under his breath. 'I am Gandalf,' the wizard rumbles heartily, 'And Gandalf means me.'

'Gandalf!' Bilbo exclaims, and a flicker of confusion passes over his face, before he splits into a wide grin, 'Not _the _Gandalf?! The one who told all of those amazing tales of trolls and Wargs and goblins and bear-men and dragons! And who made those magnificent fireworks that the old Took used to have on a midsummer's eve! Ah, Gandalf, welcome! _Welcome_! _Good morning_!'

Gandalf the Grey merely smiles down at little Master Baggins (whose Tookish side is coming out again – for those who haven't noticed) and nods to himself slightly. _Yes, this little Hobbit definitely needs to go on an adventure… _'What a lot of things you use "Good morning" for!' the grey wizard chuckles mildly.

* * *

Gandalf the Grey clears his throat. After ushering in all thirteen dwarves (you do remember them, yes? The ones Bilbo was spying on – *ahem* - _watching_), they proceeded to ransack all his pantries and _sing _whilst doing so. In the midst of this Bilbo wanders around, frantically telling every dwarf to _get their filthy paws off his jam _and wondering why in the world these dwarves are even in his home in the first place. But Bilbo is a hobbit and he likes visitors. He just likes to know them before they come visiting… 'Bilbo, meet Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili, Dori, Ori, Nori, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and especially Thorin Oakensheild,' Gandalf gestures finally to a princely dwarf, one who is slightly taller than the rest. He has a mane of flowing dark brown hair and eyes as lost and cold as a single icicle hovering over a lake. 'This is Bilbo Baggins, the fourteenth member of our company.'

'At your service!' all of the dwarves – save one – bow again, sweeping off their travelling-hoods politely.

Bilbo stares at them all nervously. 'You mean, these dwarves are _yours?' _he yelps at Gandalf.

'We do not belong to any man, be them wizard or other,' Thorin growls from the corner, eyes wild.

Gandalf sighs, 'Yes, thank you, Thorin.'

'Tell me, Master Baggins,' Thorin continues, circling the hobbit like a wild Warg of the East, 'Have you much skill in fighting?'

'Pardon me?' Bilbo squeaks.

'Sword or axe?'

'Well,' Bilbo clears his throat before straightening his back slightly and standing with a sort of pride, 'I _do _have some skill at playing conkers but I fail to see why that is important…'

Thorin smirks widely at Bilbo's confession. He turns to address the rest of the company with arms held aloft. 'I feared so. Looks more like a green grocer than a burglar to me, lads,' he cackles, and the rest of the dwarves snort loudly with laughter, creating much of a rumpus.

'ENOUGH!' Gandalf roars. He seems to grow taller suddenly – not just because he is in the presence of little people – and colder, as if all the light in the tiny hobbit-hole he is sucking away. He brandishes his fist before letting it clatter down on the table, 'IF I SAY MASTER BAGGINS IS A BURGLAR, THEN A BURLGAR HE IS!'

The hobbit whispers to the grey wizard, who crouches down to hear him. 'But Gandalf, you know I am no burglar. I have never stolen anything in my life!' Bilbo Baggins mutters quickly, before raising his voice so that the dwarves can hear, 'Furthermore, I cannot just go running off into the blue. I am a Baggins –' he makes a discontented noise and clears his throat, 'Of Bag End.'

Then Gandalf bends down and whispers seven tiny words to him, and those particular seven tiny words made all the difference: 'Ah, but you are also a Took…'

Bilbo stays silent for a long time, cradling his cup and saucer in one hand, and his head in the other. He watches the fire flicker comfortingly, and lets the heat spread up his hairy, woollen feet and all the way up his body. _Ah, comfort… But_ _Gandalf is right._ 'Pass me that document.'

* * *

All is dark in the house of the hobbit, save one lonely light at the table where the thirteen dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard plan.

'… then we will need to –'

'But how can we –'

'Does anybody have any chips?'

**_SLAM._**

'Drat that blasted bird!' Bilbo Baggins exclaims, storming over to his round open window and slamming it shut dramatically. The bird in question, now behind the glass, starts tapping it persistently with its glistening black beak. Bilbo shoots it a look before storming back over to the table. 'I believe him to be spying on us,' he says, by way of explanation.

Thorin barely glances up at him, but shoots one quick glance over to the bird, before straightening the map out and continuing to read, 'Leave _her _alone! That is a thrush, a bird of my people. She brings us good fortune, Master hobbit.'

And yet none of them notice, not even Gandalf out of the corner of his eye, that the bird flutters off, quickly and frantically, towards the East. She is heading for Erebor.

* * *

_...Three days later..._

Smaug is bored. No, Smaug is _BORED._ The dragon huffs out a deep, breathy sigh, black smoke curling around his nostrils in a foggy haze. After easily defeating the lake-town of Dale – _and _eating the majority of their livestock, as well as themselves – he has been cooped up in the Lonely Mountain while he waits by word of the Shadow-voice. Although, for what, he is not so sure.

And so he waits... and waits… and waits…

**CLANG**

And suddenly, with a heavy clatter and a bang, a mother thrush shoots through the partially open window like a flaming magic pinecone (Smaug has seen his fair share of these).

He opens one eye lazily, a golden beam of light shooting out from under one heavily-armoured eyelid. 'Not your best landing then, bird,' he grumbles, his booming voice shaking the very rotting roots of his mountain.

The bird ignores this jibe, continuing the business of straightening out her ruffled feathers. 'My liege –'

'Molly, don't call me "my liege",' the great dragon makes the rumbling air quote awkwardly with his left claws, 'or "my lord" or "your honour" or any of that nonsensical drivel, for the matter. My name is Smaug. I am Smaug the Golden, Smaug the Terrible, Smaug – Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities, but I am certainly not _a_ "_liege_".'

The bird – Molly – sighs heavily, before continuing, readjusting her grip for balance upon an old, bent goblet at the dragon's snout, 'Yes, O Smaug the Terrible. It would seem that the Master Dwarf and his band of henchmen – or hench_dwarves_, as it is - have decided to return on a quest to the Lonely Mountain for… uh, revenge, my lord Smaug.'

Smaug the Golden lets the fine _mithril_ coat he is inspecting fall from his talons with a clatter onto his nest of treasures. He is seething, yet rather cocky, as he turns to look the bird squarely in the tiny eyes, his own orbs burning with the immense magical flaming power which a dragon wields. 'Revenge?' he hisses at her, and his breath reeks of blood, '_Revenge_?! The King under the Mountain is dead and where are his kin that dare seek _revenge_? Girion Lord of Dale is dead, I have eaten his people, and where are his sons' sons that dare approach me? I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today. Then I was but young and tender. Now I am older and stronger, oh, so much _stronger_, my little sparrow friend!'

'Um, thrush,' the mother bird timidly corrects under her breath, almost to herself.

'Whatever,' he waves her away with a "Does-it-look-like-I-care,-peasant?" look and a set of newly bronzed and buffed talons – courtesy of the old war-banners of the dwarf king, which are now in tatters. 'Leave me.'

'As you wish, lord Smaug,' the thrush hisses, and with a single flap of her tiny wings, she is gone.

Smaug rises from his latest bed of treasures, gold tinkling off him and spattering like tiny raindrops against his thick hide. He begins to pace through his palace, inspecting all of its golden splendour, the great roars ripping themselves from his blistering throat setting fire to each remaining dwarf tapestry.

In the corner of the dwarfish chambers the face of the darkness gives a malicious grin, before it turns away and only black surrounds.

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